Stepping Stones
by encyclopedia britannica
Summary: Life has never been known to go easy on anyone involved, and Molly Flynn certainly was no exception to the rule. But, if there was one person in what was left of the world up to making the best out of the apocalypse and one crossbow wielding Daryl Dixon, she knew the task had her name all over it.


Molly Flynn prided herself on three major things in life: being an incurable optimist, making the best enchiladas this side of Mexico, and the flawless masterpiece that was her blog.

Food and fangirling aside, she was confident to say that not a day went by in which her glass wasn't half full. Silver linings practically begged for her to seek them out like her very own personalized scavenger hunt, and frankly, after a lifetime of practice, there was no bad situation the girl wasn't capable of working to her advantage and spinning in her favor. The time she had been terminated from Sullivan's Diner on the absolutely ridiculous grounds that Sully took offense to being called out for the sexist pig he was, for instance, turned into more time to focus on her love of, well, whatever the hell she wanted. And her car getting destroyed by a hit-and-run driver when grocery shopping at Target only gave her the incentive to upgrade to a spacier SUV. As for catching her then boyfriend in bed with archenemy Hannah 'calm-down-Molly-it's-just-a-TV-show' Caldwell? A mere reminder that she shouldn't have been lowering her standards from dream man, Tony Stark, anyways.

The simple skill had been encoded in her DNA from day one, or for at least as long as Molly could remember back. Invisibly implanted into her very being, and as strong as an animal's instinct in the wild. Useful. Not to mention effective. Sure, she had never been coordinated enough for sports or even remotely talented for anything artistic, but making the proverbial lemonade out of lemons? That she could handle.

Two months ago when the outbreak struck and the entire world ended up going to shit, her game turned rather twisted as the undead became a threat she never imagined herself having to face. Three days previously when her group left her stranded in the backwoods of Georgia as several dozen creeps took their camp just added insult to injury.

Three, long, miserable days with nothing but the clothes on her back.

No company. No food. No direction.

After losing the danger hot on her trail, the forest itself remained mostly still as Molly both trekked toward an unknown destination by day, and laid high out of reach in an oak tree by night. With spirits dwindling, she quietly took to reciting scenes from several of her favorite movies in the dark of the wilderness, improvising where her memory failed her, and humming the melody of songs she wondered if she'd ever get to hear again. Finally, on the fourth morning, it was evident that if she didn't find something to eat and drink soon, it'd hardly matter if the rest of the world was going to resume. She'd not survive to see it.

With no water in sight, the means to catch herself any variety of small animal, nor the knowledge of which clusters of berries were poisonous if ingested, Molly hated to admit it, but the outcome didn't seem as though it'd be very favorable. Indeed, for the better part of an hour, she lay motionless against a thick tree trunk as the sun peeked gingerly over the horizon, unable to continue on, foolishly hoping the answer to her plight would fall into her lap. Maybe, just maybe, wherever she was headed at least had an internet connection.

_It's the very least you could do_, she huffed silently up toward the sky.

Drifting in and out of exhaustion, a twig snapping in close proximity brought her back to her senses, though she wasn't entirely sure if she was more overcome with fear or relief. The crossbow aimed precisely at her head made things easy and came to the decision for her.

"Don't shoot! Please!" Molly tried to yell in a surge of panic. The noise that came out of her mouth had her momentarily surprised at how hoarse she'd become in dehydration. A gruff voice met her in return, bundle of dead squirrels swaying off his belt.

"What the hell..."

"Please, I'm not infected!"

The stranger staring back at her looked skeptical, as if she was some sort of trap. He didn't lower his bow an inch and stayed on his guard as Molly shielded herself uselessly with shaking hands.

"Any bites? Scratches?" he questioned.

"No, not from them. Just cut up from the trees."

"On your own?"

"I am now."

"Where you headed?"

"Anywhere," she told him truthfully. "Anywhere that's safe."

His were eyes hard and suspicious as they both studied each other carefully. The man was a hunter, she presumed, given the weapon of choice and the game he'd been able to successfully catch. Rough around the edges, but who wasn't these days. Possibly some sort of hard labor worker before the infection spread, too fierce for a desk job. However, perhaps that's what the end of the world does to even the most mild mannered of people. By himself, nonetheless. Either in route or on reconnaissance. Not likely that he, too, was hopelessly lost. He seemed to be in fine health. And ready to put an arrow in her brain if she gave him a reason.

He looked conflicted as he watched her, taking in the scrapes on her arms and anxiety etched on her face, before finally shouldering his crossbow with a sigh.

"Got a camp not far from here," he said, surveying the area around them. "Unless ya got other plans."

He didn't need to ask twice. Even if he was a psychopath, Molly told herself, at least she'd go out in the company of another human being and not those _things_.

Taking his offer, she tried desperately to steady herself, clawing up the bark of the tree she'd been resting against, though her body suddenly became an pressure too overwhelming on her legs. Tunnel vision set in almost immediately making her feel like she was drowning in the ocean. The man in front of her looked downright irritated as she took but three steps before losing consciousness and falling to the dirt at his feet.


End file.
